Red Sky
by Dancing Nightmare
Summary: Deathfic. As the man’s voice on the other end of the line cracks you feel the panic rising in your chest, and mentally you go through all that has happened to your son, trying to comprehend what could be worse than what had already happened to him.
1. Blythe

**A/N: **Warning; death fic! I originally wrote a longer story like this but I liked this version better. It's my first time to write out of second person singular POV and first time writing in present tense. Wish me luck!

**Disclaimer: **Me no own, you no sue.

* * *

The phone rings and you stir in your sleep, cracking one eye open. John grunts and mumbles about crazy people who calls in the middle of the night. He asks sleepily if he should take it, because he knows you have been sleeping badly since you got to know about your son's bus crash. But you sigh and shake your head.

"I'll take it, go back to sleep" you say, but John has already done that. You hurry on wobbling steps to the phone and pick it up, stifling a yawn. "Hello, Blythe House"

"Mrs House" a man (whose voice you recognize faintly but can't place) says gravely and his dry voice tells a tale of having cried. "I… I'm a friend of your son, Gregory House"

"Oh? Has something happened?" you ask, now suddenly clearly awake and your hand tightens around the phone subconsciously.

"I… He… I don't know how to…" the friend of your son says but he then takes a deep breath as his voice fails him, and you swear that you can hear him whisper _Oh God_.

_Oh God _is not good.

As the man's voice on the other end of the line cracks you feel the panic rising in your chest, and mentally you go through all that has happened to your son, trying to comprehend what could be worse than what had already happened to him.

_broken arm_

_abused_

_leg infarction_

_shot_

_coma_

_bus crash—_

"I… He… I'm very sorry but your son…" the man - Wilson is his name as you now somehow recalls in your frantic mind - says but he stops and you think you can hear a choked sob.

"Is he okay?" you whisper, though it wasn't meant to be a whisper, but your voice can't seem to gather enough strength.

"I'm really sorry, but… Greg suffered stroke" Wilson says in a strangled voice that then changedinto a hoarse whisper; "He was pronounced dead 01:27 AM this night"

**Dead.**

Your son was dead.

Gone forever.

No longer breathing.

_deaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead—_

You don't know if it's you or the phone that hits the floor first.


	2. John

**A/N: **Some people requested for John's POV, so here it is. Maybe I'll do a Wilson POV later on? Also; the premise of the story was thought of before _Birthmarks_, and the first chapter was written before it was released. So it's kinda AU. This one's longer too.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own House, MD.

* * *

You stir in the sleep at the sound of a phone ringing, and you blink twice as you try to figure out what the hell is happening. Who calls at – you glance at the alarm clock – almost two in the morning? You hope that if you ignore the shrill ringing long enough, it will go away, but it doesn't.

"Crazy people, calling so late at night" you grunt into your pillow, then look up at your wife. The bags under her eyes makes you feel guilty for ignoring the call. "Should I take it?"

But she sighs and shakes her head, and she says something you can't hear, because your eyelids have already shut down and you're fast asleep.

You don't sleep very long until you wake again, but you still dream. You dream about a marine, with soft brown eyes and he reminds you of someone. And he just looks so sad. He's holding something in his hands, but you can't see what it is, but you feel strangely guilty and the guilt is choking you. But you never feel guilty. Why are you feeling guilty?

The marine now looks more like a sailor, and he gives you whatever he's holding. It's a piece of cloth, and you look down at it—

—But you never see what it is, and you never will, because a loud thud from the kitchen wakes you up again. You can't see Blythe lying beside you, so naturally you become worried, and get out of bed.

And when you reach the kitchen you're wide awake because there she is, your precious Blythe, on the floor.

She's not moving.

"Blythe!" you shout out of sheer surprise and fear.

You kneel down beside her and you use standard marine training to assure yourself that she's all right, just unconscious. You calm down and it's only now that you notice the phone – that blasted phone – that's lying on it's back like an upside-down beetle. A faint voice comes from it.

_Hello? Hello? Mrs. House, are—are you still there?_

You realize that whatever the person on the other line had say must've shocked your wife so hard that she fainted, and so, you pick it up again.

"This is John House," you say in your firm military voice, the one that Blythe always made fun of in your dearer moments.

"Oh, Mr. House, I—" the man on the other line begins but abruptly stops, and to your astonishment, his voice is coated with sorrow and is cracking, something that you couldn't hear before.

He sounds like he's crying.

Why would he be crying?

"Who is this?" you ask in the same military voice.

The man inhales and speaks again, voice steadier. "I'm… It's James Wilson, Hou—I mean, your son… your son Greg's friend"

Your eyes narrow slightly at the sound of your son's name, and you glance down at Blythe. What had your anarchistic son done that could've shocked her this badly? Been reckless again?

"What has Gregory done this time?" you ask in a sharper tone.

James Wilson has to pause and breathe several times as he tells you the same story that he told your wife; that Gregory suffered a stroke shortly after coming out of his brief coma, that the bus crash had damaged his brain too much already, that they did everything they could.

He doesn't need to tell you that "_everything we could_" mean _"it wasn't enough"_.

Your grip on the telephone slackens and your eyes become softer but grimmer too as you divert your gaze from Blythe to the kitchen floor. You thank James Wilson for calling, still with your military voice, then you hang up the phone.

It's only a couple of minutes later, when Blythe starts to stir, that you realize that your son really is dead.

As she clutches onto you and cries, you can't help but think that children shouldn't die before their parents. No matter how anarchistic, obnoxious and rude they might be.

And the guilt starts to choke you again, but you still don't know why.


End file.
